


sweeter than sin

by coatsandjumpers



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Fluff, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, in which i write porn for the second time in three days, it's pretty pronounced in this fic so consider yourself warned, the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 14:12:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5007808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coatsandjumpers/pseuds/coatsandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haytham preoccupies himself with thoughts of Connor. It's always Connor these days — damn the boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweeter than sin

Haytham’s quill is poised above his paper, ink dripping slowly onto the now stained page. His hand is raised in order to write but his thoughts wander elsewhere, and he finds himself uncharacteristically distracted. The letter he meant to compose falls into the background as he preoccupies himself with thoughts of Connor — it’s always Connor these days. Damn the boy.

He’s so _mutinous_ all the time, always glaring at Haytham and refusing to follow orders. Haytham’s lucky if he can even get the boy to dress properly, much less carry out actual instructions. It’s unfortunate that their time spent together has grown to mean more than pleasure to him; it’s an inconvenience at best, a danger at worst. Still, even then, their encounters feel antagonistic. Connor tends to be vicious, fighting for control, waiting for the second that Haytham lets his guard down. Connor should know by now that he won’t win, not unless Haytham lets him, but it doesn’t stop them from being rough, their fucking closer to a brawl than anything else.

_It would be nice_ , Haytham muses, _to teach the boy some gentleness_. He’s older than he used to be, and sometimes he misses the particular brand of pleasure that accompanies slow touches, the friction sweet but gentle. _Tonight, then_. Haytham smiles at that, satisfied, and returns to his letter. He eyes the ink stain with annoyance before searching for a new sheet of parchment, rebuking himself for letting Connor distract him. Damn that boy.

—

Connor’s lips are pressed against Haytham’s, hard, teeth bumping uncomfortably as both of them refuse to submit. Haytham snarls against Connor, frustrated. They’ve barely started and already, their lips are swollen and reddened from teeth and hard kisses, their skin marked with bruises that are fast deepening to a purple. They’re both gasping for air when Haytham manages to draw back, and he pauses, assesses the situation. Connor stares at him, head cocked slightly to one side, confused at Haytham’s apparent reluctance. The silence and tension between them stretches, their breaths growing deeper and steadier as the atmosphere around them seems to slow. Then, Haytham leans forward, eyes on Connor’s face, and drops his lips to Connor’s neck. This time, the kisses are gentle, hesitant even. Haytham doesn’t look up to see Connor’s reaction, just continues placing barely there pressure against Connor’s skin, dipping lower and past his collarbone. Moments later, Haytham mentally heaves a sigh of relief; he’s surprised Connor is being so pliant, but he’s certainly not complaining. Still, the tension in the room feels heavy, the silence and stillness almost unnatural. It feels like they’re waiting for --

Connor snaps at him, teeth digging into Haytham’s exposed shoulder. Haytham jerks back from the Assassin instantly, brows drawing together in anger.

“Connor!” Haytham’s words are heated, but they’re falling on deaf ears. Connor looks sullen and a bit too smug for Haytham’s taste. He’d meant to win his son over tonight, be gentle and loving in a way he never was, but Connor’s behavior was grating on him, and if his plan was to goad Haytham, he’d succeeded.

“Must you be such a child?” He gets off the bed and moves towards the drawers along the side of the room, back turned towards Connor. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“Since when were you so sensitive, father?” Haytham doesn’t need to see Connor to sense the satisfaction in his tone. He glances down at the strips of cloth in his hand and resists a smirk himself. He knows he’ll have to move fast if he wants to restrain the boy, but he’s sure Connor won’t be quite so confident in a couple minutes.

“If you insist on acting like a brat, Connor, you really leave me no choice but to punish you.”

And with that, he turns and lunges for Connor. He’s quick about the first knot, but Connor has the honed instincts of a fighter, and he takes stock of the situation in an instant. He struggles against where Haytham’s pinned him, growling as he tries to regain control. Haytham ignores his son’s muttered curses and fruitless attempts to attack him, and before long, Connor’s wrists are tied securely to the headboard. His glare is more rebellious than ever, and Haytham can’t help the flare of satisfaction he feels at his son’s expression. This was not the outcome he’d wanted for this evening, but if Connor wanted things rough, then so be it.

“Are you going to behave now? Or do I have to restrain you further?”

Connor looks murderous at this point, but he nods slightly.

“I’ll behave. Father.” Connor says the last word pointedly, like some kind of jab or rebuke, but this is not their first time together, and Haytham knows that they are far past the point of shame or regret. Even so, the knowledge of how wrong this is sets heat racing over Haytham’s skin. He suddenly wonders if that wasn’t Connor’s motivation all along. He shifts downward along the bed, conscious of Connor’s eyes on him, wary. He places kisses along the inside of Connor’s thighs and light nips, just to watch him jerk away and shiver. For all his protest, Connor is hard, his hips shifting minutely on the sheets, his pupils blown. He’s managed to keep his scowl plastered to his face though, and Haytham can’t help rolling his eyes at his son’s obstinacy before taking Connor’s cock into his mouth, cheeks hollowed and tongue pressed against the underside.

He hears a sharp inhale above him, and Connor’s hips buck forward, forcing Haytham to take more. He does so with well-practiced ease, but he moves his hands to Connor’s hips, pressing to keep him in place. It’s a reminder of who’s in control, and every moan and whimper he coaxes out of his son feels like a victory. He tongues the slit, tasting pre-come before pulling off Connor with a slick, filthy sound. He’s lost track of how much time he’s spent taking Connor apart, but when Haytham finally looks up, he immediately notices how flushed Connor is, a blush high on his cheeks. His anger has clearly dissipated, replaced only by pleasure and desperation. He’s practically panting, spit shiny on his lips as he looks at Haytham with half-lidded eyes.

He’s right where Haytham wants him, and he presses his advantage, moving his hand to Connor’s thigh and stroking the sensitive skin there -- a hint or a promise, perhaps. Connor whines as Haytham moves closer, but it’s not enough, not yet.

“Did you want something, child? All you need to do is ask.” Even that seems as though it might be too steep of a request, because Connor looks past words, his low whines almost constant as his hips buck up towards Haytham, searching for friction.

“Father, please.” Connor’s voice is hushed and pleading, but it’s loud in the waiting silence of the room. “I want you in me.”

Haytham can’t resist that, the quiet supplication in Connor’s tone. His son looks needy and vulnerable, gaze heated and cock hard, in a way that he never does. He looks open, and Haytham takes his time preparing Connor, letting oil slick the way. Two fingers in and Connor’s moaning, the noises drawn out and slow, the sweet, sure build of the heat within him interrupted only when Haytham brushes up against the right spot, sending blinding pleasure through him and making him arch off the bed. Haytham revels in the sound of Connor’s labored breathing, his son’s unrestrained noises falling in time with the filthy sound of Haytham’s movements.

When Haytham adds a third finger, Connor keens, and Haytham feels heat shoot through him at the sound. He lowers his lips to Connor’s and moments later, they’re kissing, moving messily against each other. It’s not chaotic like it usually is, all teeth and tongue. Haytham feels almost languorous, letting his tongue slip into Connor’s mouth slowly, enjoying the sensation of Connor pressed close to him. The boy seems content to let Haytham have his way, although when Haytham finally breaks away, that low whine rises again in his throat. He turns to press against Haytham’s neck, practically nuzzles at him, and Haytham can’t help the surge of affection at Connor’s actions. It’s a welcome change from the teeth that are usually snapping at his jugular, and now that Connor is no longer questioning Haytham’s victory in their constant battle for the upper hand, Haytham can truly enjoy the spoils.

Connor’s vulnerability feels like some kind of trust, and all their movements feel intimate in a way that’s different from usual, the slow crescendo of the pleasure between them somehow more satisfying than ever before. Haytham can’t help but feel surprised; his plan to coax Connor into something sweeter than their typical encounters had seemed doomed to fail at the start. Now though, as much as Haytham has enjoyed his success, he feels a surge of impatience. The sight of Connor spread for him, arms held wide by the restraints and legs open in invitation, is far too tempting to resist.

Haytham removes his fingers, slightly amused by the noise Connor makes, unhappy and confused. He coats himself generously in oil, then pushes into Connor, both of them moaning at the sensation. Connor’s eyelids flutter shut as he tries to accommodate the intrusion, and Haytham runs a soothing hand along his side, murmuring words of praise.

“You’ve been so good for me tonight, such a good boy.”

That’s not entirely true, but Haytham wants nothing but sweetness from Connor now, and besides, he doesn’t think the boy is coherent enough to contradict him. Haytham’s not sure Connor’s processing much at all, but he shivers at Haytham’s words, rolling his hips until his father groans in pleasure and starts moving. Gentle lips are once again on Connor’s chest, then collarbone, then neck but this time Haytham layers only a few kisses before biting down, hard, leaving a mark and then soothing it with gentle laves of his tongue. Haytham’s moving faster by now, and Connor’s broken off noises are sending sparks of heat through him. Connor cries out when Haytham angles perfectly, his restraints going taut as he writhes, pushing Haytham deeper within him. He can feel the sting of tears pricking at his eyes, and Haytham notices Connor’s breaths are becoming closer to sobs.

He reaches between them and places his hand on Connor’s cock, deliberately not moving, even when Connor’s breath hitches deliciously.

“Do you want to come, Connor? Do you think you deserve to come?”

Connor looks like he’s struggling not to completely break apart, the slight sheen of tears tracking down his face. His expression looks glazed, like he can’t think past his lust, and only his sobs and whimpers and the way he’s trying to rut against Haytham keep him grounded. He seems to pool the last of his concentration, stilling for a second except for the instinctive roll of his hips, pulling Haytham closer to him, in order to say —

_“Father.”_

It’s not an answer to Haytham’s question, but it’s what both of them wanted to hear, and both of them seem to snap at the word, the reminder of their sin and their bond sending desire through them. Haytham moves his hand roughly on Connor’s cock in time with his thrusts, uncaring of technique, knowing it won’t take much to get his son off after he’s been teetering on the edge for so long. Sure enough, Connor comes moments later, tightening around Haytham, who fucks him through it, his own pleasure building. Connor’s cries feel almost distant to Haytham, and his thrusts become erratic as Connor starts to come down, his eyes slipping shut. Haytham isn’t paying attention to details anymore, can’t focus on the indents his nails are making along Connor’s hips, can’t focus on the noises Connor, oversensitive and truly well-fucked, is making. This feels like hedonism, sinful and utterly intoxicating. Haytham comes, hips snapping forwards one final time before he spills into Connor, the sensation overwhelming and all-consuming.

The heady pleasure fades too soon, and Haytham pulls out once he catches his breath, unable to help the heat that spreads through him at the sight of his come leaking out of Connor. He grabs something to wipe both of them off, but the sheets are a lost cause anyway, and he’s tired. When he unties the boy, lightly touching the irritated skin on his wrists, Connor opens his eyes, staring at his father with undisguised contentment. This time, the warmth Haytham feels is different, and it doesn’t fade. He slips under the covers next to Connor, and the boy turns until his face is pressed into his father’s neck. The room is far from cold, but Connor seems to crave Haytham’s heat and touch.

“Tonight felt different, father.” Connor sounds almost hesitant, like he’s not sure if he should bring this conversation up. They’re both sleepy — who knows what they might let slip?

“I’m too old for us to always be at each other’s throats. I’m glad you’re capable of _some_ obedience.” Haytham’s words don’t hold any real heat in them, and it’s a non-answer to Connor’s non-question.

Connor can’t help but smile at that. Haytham always was too clever and cautious with his words.  Still, after tonight, the memory of Haytham trailing kisses along his torso and fingering him with leisure is vivid, and Connor wonders if something has changed. Haytham’s eyeing him, and his thoughts must show even in the semi-darkness of the moonlit room, because Haytham seems to sense his need for some kind of assurance. There’s the gentle press of lips against his forehead, and then fingers are carding into his hair. Haytham’s presence is comforting and steady, and perhaps for now, that’s answer enough.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> @adjourn, you'd better finish your fic asap so i seem like less of a SINNER
> 
> —
> 
> hell is my home now


End file.
